A Love by any other Name
by Eos Blaze 0402
Summary: Antonin Dolohov has broken out of Azkaban and survival brings him to the town of Hogsmeade where he stumbles into Hermione Granger while he's pretending to be Neville. Can a single encounter change the hardened Death Eater or will Hermione be just a mudblood he bumped into?
1. Chapter 1

**I own nothing but Vita Deserto!**

 **I was having a dream this morning and in it I was J.K. Rowling, but then my dog jumped on me and rest as they say…**

 **Is nothing worth talking about as it involves a lot of dog-saliva on my face and my freezing cold ass and some f-words. I think my dog is Devil's enforcer.**

 **So, regrettably I don't own anything. Does the dream count?**

* * *

Chapter One

 _ **I yearn for you, but I can never have you…**_

* * *

It was snowing when he first saw her.

It was one of those meetings that one person remembers while the other doesn't. He was a recent escapee of Azkaban, and survival had brought him here in the village of Hogsmeade where snow fell like thick fluffy clouds and covered every ugly facet to make the scene postcard-perfect.

Antonin Dolohov, Death Eater extraordinaire, was walking the streets under the guise of a hopeless student who had been lousy lucked enough to bump into him earlier. It felt weird-walking while you were transfigured as a teen. To top it off, this Hogwarts student was a bloody Gryffindor. Oh! How his skin just itched to throw away every piece of maroon and gold, but survival came first.

He had no idea where this particular Gryffindor with gangly limbs and an under-confident gait had been headed to, but he was under no obligation to find out, was he?

He would head out to Rosmerta's; drink a couple of fire whiskeys. Then he would buy some supplies to last him while he laid low for a couple of days. It was entirely that bitch Bellatrix's fault. Had she not gone crazy and started torturing muggles, aurors wouldn't have shown up. Antonin cursed his luck for being in the wrong place at a wrong time.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't pay any attention to where he was going until he bumped abruptly into another person. He fell on a soft body and internally cursed this boy's reflexes. Had he not been transfigured, he wouldn't have crashed headlong into this girl, and moreover, even if he had, he would have saved them both from the annoyance of falling.

'Neville, are you all right?' It was one of those voices, one of those once in a lifetime kind of voices that a person heard if they were lucky enough.

Antonin didn't think he'd ever been lucky enough.

He stared at her like a fool blinded by a goddess. She was but a girl of fifteen, not quite a woman yet, and still her beauty rendered him sightless.

He had never been blinded this way before in his life.

He was a Death Eater for Salazar's sake and a quite skilled one at that. Being fascinated with witches who were more than fifteen years his junior wasn't in his repertoire.

'Neville?' She sounded exasperated and that reminded him to tear his eyes off her face and look repentant, which he wasn't in the least.

She had gotten up. She was spelling her clothes dry and he was still sitting on the wet road as if he had found absolution. For what was she if not absolution?

He looked at her again.

She was picturesque. Wild brown hair, which had been barely tamed into a pony hung down her back. Few tendrils escaped and they hung in front of her face, and what a face it was. Pale, dotted with freckles near her nose-she was a vision. Her lips were pink and they looked so soft. Antonin had this strange urge to tug her down and plant his lips on hers.

Her intelligent dark chocolate eyes had flecks of gold in them.

Such intelligence was only manifested in purebloods. Was she a Nott, or Zabini? Parkinson or Greengrass?

'Neville? Are you coming?' Her hand was extended in his direction and her eyes held so much kindness. Antonin felt the jealousy poisoning his blood as he grabbed her hand to stand. Who was this Gryffindor for whom she held such tender emotions?

She muttered few quick spells and he felt himself getting comfortably dry and warm.

This witch had robbed him of his voice. Maybe, it was a good thing. For he was sure she would find out his deception if he opened his mouth.

'Hermione?' somebody hollered from behind.

In quiet moments that were to follow his meeting with Hermione Granger, he would always wonder why he had turned. If he had gone his own way after bumping into her, he could have always maintained this illusion that she was someone he could have in his life, but then he had turned, only to come face to face with Harry Potter.

'Neville? Aren't you coming to the meeting at Hogshead?' Potter asked.

He could do nothing but nod his head to signify his assent.

'Neville bumped into me while I was rushing to the meeting.' She smiled at Potter and Antonin felt like _Avada_ -ing the boy.

They started walking ahead of him, another red-haired boy, probably a Weasley said something that made her mock punch the boy in the arm. There was an easy carmadire here, a friendship that probably stretched years.

Antonin didn't have friends like his witch Hermione had.

There were only associates and people who didn't believe in their cause of blood purity. There was nothing in between.

He didn't remember much while he followed the trio inside the dingy little pub, nor did he remember what had gone on in that meeting. He only remembered dark brown eyes filled with righteous fire, trying to convince people that they needed to learn Defense against the dark arts by themselves rather than depending on the ministry appointed teacher.

Oh, how it would grate on Umbridge's nerves, were she to know that these fifth years had already thought of a way to thwart her beloved Fudge's plans!

The end of the meeting came much too sooner than he wanted it to be. He signed the Gryffindor's name and was surprised to realize that he was impersonating Frank and Alice Longbottom's son-the same auror couple who had dared to stand against Bellatrix.

Antonin didn't want to leave his witch's company but from what he assumed, she wasn't much close to Neville to pay him much heed. She walked out of the door along with Potter and Weasley, never sparing him a second glance while his eyes were only on her.

He couldn't wait to return and find out who she was.

He was sure Hermione Granger was a witch fashioned only for him by the fates and he would burn anyone who dared to come between him and his salvation…

* * *

Antonin should've known that fates would never deign to smile at someone as degraded as him.

Hermione Granger was Harry Potter's _mudblood_ friend.

From what he could learn from ramblings of Lucius- _Mudblood_ Granger was too smart for her own good. She was the brains behind the golden trio and without her Potter and Weasley had no chance of survival, let alone success.

These small snippets filled his heart with pride on her capability, and at the same time, he had to be extremely vigilant regarding his mental shields. He didn't need anyone snooping in and finding about his fixation on the little witch.

The days passed in monotony.

Between the failed plans of the dark lord to extract the prophecy and couple of crucios thrown here and there for effect, there was nothing worth doing. He had decided to go back to his estate in the meantime.

He still attended the meetings as were required from him, but somewhere between the time when he had bumped into his witch and modifying the memory of the bumbling Gryffindor he'd been impersonating along with returning the poor boy's clothes, a small flicker of doubt had made its home inside his heart.

The small nagging voice that questioned the blood supremacy of dark lord was as tempting as the first serpent that had tempted Eve. He knew nothing good would ever come out of his fascination with the girl, but it was as if he couldn't stop himself from thinking about her.

Her tender, friendly smile filled his days and his much darker fantasies haunted his nights and stained his sheets.

She had become a potent drug, and it felt as if he was addicted with no possibility of a cure…

* * *

Dark Lord was not big on celebrating the holidays, and yet there was a meeting on Christmas Eve in the Malfoy manor. The usual talk of how purebloods were better than the half-bloods and mudbloods was rampant.

Were these idiots unaware that Dark Lord himself was a half-blood?

The highlight of the meeting had been the spectacle of Bellatrix salivating over Dark Lord with renewed gusto. He shuddered when the image of Bellatrix and Dark Lord came unbidden in his mind. There were few things that a man didn't need to see, and watching your snake faced boss relieving his baser urges with an evidently insane Bellatrix was one of them.

The meeting was followed by the dinner, and everyone around the table felt extremely relieved when dark lord excused himself along with his pet snake. Antonin was seated beside young Draco, and he thanked his stars for giving him such an excellent chance to catch up on what his witch was up to.

The young Malfoy didn't need much prodding to start on Hermione Granger.

'The uppity bitch would've been expelled, had it not have been for old _Dumbles_ sacrificing himself for _scarhead_. After all the whole Dumbledore's army was her idea, wasn't it?' The sneer on the boy's face was loathsome as was the slight unhealthy crush he had on Antonin's witch.

Lucius should've taught occlumency to his spawn.

The detailed vivid fantasies young Draco had about Hermione Granger had just earned him an enemy and he didn't even know it yet.

He kept on babbling without noticing that the more he delved into some of the things he would do to Hermione Granger, more thunderous Antonin Dolohov's face became.

'I bet she is screwing both Potty and Weasel. Why else would anyone keep her around?'

Antonin's fingers were digging into his palm.

People left the table to wander around the Malfoy estate, and some of them even ventured outside to admire Lucius's albino peacocks. Finally, he was alone with young Draco.

Patience indeed yielded results.

'What were you saying about Hermione Granger, Draco?' His lips were pulled back in a snarl which showed his even white teeth.

Draco gulped. Some instinct had always kept him far away from Dolohov and today, right in this moment that instinct was screaming at him to get away. Antonin Dolohov was far more dangerous than his insane aunt Bellatrix.

That night, young Draco Malfoy experienced the worst pain he had ever experienced in his fifteen-year-old life. And in the morning no memories remained-only pain and it would continue to haunt him every time he would open his mouth to say anything about one Hermione Granger…

* * *

He had been painting in his studio when the dark mark burned.

Sighing, he dropped his paintbrush near the easel and quickly cast a Scourgify to clean his turpentine and paint-smeared hands.

When he apparated in the dining hall of Malfoy Manor, Death Eaters were already gathered around the table conversing in excited whispers. A hush fell as they watched him make his way towards them.

He cut quite an intimidating figure at six feet four, and a devastatingly good looking face. He looked like a prince and yet he was no savior. He was the devil or one of the devil's many minions to be precise. Among his fellow Death Eaters, he was known for his ruthless penchant for killing. He was a true master of dark arts, the only one after the Dark Lord himself.

Bellatrix had been taught the very advanced dark spells by their master himself whereas Dolohov had invented most of them. He had no equal in curse creation.

The arrival of their master silenced the few like Nott and Goyle who were still trying to figure out why they had all been summoned.

'Harry Potter is in the department of mysteries,' his master hissed, and that was all they needed to fall in regimented little groups.

* * *

When Antonin reached to where Lucius and Bellatrix had cornered Potter and his friends, his heart stopped for a moment to see his witch among them.

What was she doing here?

Throughout the time Lucius taunted Potter to hand over the prophecy, his eyes were only on Hermione. He could see the shift of her eyes and flare of her nostrils. She was moving slowly, almost like not moving at all.

She was up to something.

So, when the shout of Reducto came, he was prepared than most of his colleagues. He escaped the crashing glass almost unscathed.

He kept her in his sight. Her wild hair was a dead giveaway and he was thankful for that.

As the battle raged, he inconspicuously deflected numerous curses that had been headed her way. He knew what he was doing would earn him a killing curse from Dark Lord's wand if he were ever discovered, but the light of her personality; one that attracted Antonin like a moth gave him no choice.

These school children were indeed giving Malfoy and Co. a run for their money.

He finally cornered Potter, Longbottom, and his witch in a room off the time chamber. The idiot, Jugson was displaying his incapacity of thinking about an intelligent idea by leaving everything on him.

That small nagging voice in his heart that whispered about the legitimacy of their cause reared its head again.

Before he could formulate what he was to do in this situation, Potter had stunned Jugson leaving him no choice but to act.

Curse after curse from his wand, Potter deflected each one somehow. He was indeed gifted; a perfect rival for Dark Lord even if Dark Lord refrained from discussing the boy's extraordinary abilities.

'Silencio!'

The spell came not from Potter but from his witch effectively robbing him of his voice. He looked at her, and maybe his fury was displayed clearly on his face to see. She took a step back, her eyes wide with fear and yet there was still a courage there that Antonin couldn't understand.

It felt a bit like betrayal, forget the fact that she didn't even know who he was.

She had done everything for Potter. She had put herself in the harm's way for Potter. Draco's words resonated in his head, 'Potter cares for her, probably more than he cares about anyone else.'

Why did Potter care for her? Did she love Potter?

The serpent encircled his heart, squeezing slowly as jealousy raised its ugly head among all the emotions.

 _She would know who he was after he killed Potter, won't she?_

Even without his voice, Antonin Dolohov was a force to be reckoned with.

His wand made a slashing motion in a quick moment and a purple flame erupted from his wand, aimed straight at Potter's heart. The speed with which he had cast the curse gave Potter no time to erect a shield.

In an unblinking moment, his witch pushed Potter aside, coming in the direct line of the curse. The purple flame passed through her chest, and she crumpled on the ground like a long forgotten ruin.

Nobody heard his silent scream. His mask had fallen off somewhere during the course of the battle, and if he touched his face, he would feel the wetness from tears.

What had he done?

'Petrificus Totalus,' Potter shouted.

Antonin's wand was downcast as the curse hit him. His eyes were at his witch's prone form as he fell. From a distance, he could only see as Potter carried Hermione's body out of the chamber…

* * *

When the effects of the curse wore off, he found himself lying on the floor of Department of Mysteries. The sound of battle was distant.

He didn't know what to do now.

He had killed his witch and for what?

A sudden moment of jealousy had tarnished the most precious thing life had made him experience. Why had he cast the " _Vita Deserto_ "?

Had he cast it verbally, she would have died instantly, her body shriveling from the absence of vitae. Non-verbal casting had bought her couple more hours utmost, but she would die in the end.

Nobody had ever survived his _Vita Deserto_.

He had created the curse in his seventh year-something that he could add to his own dark arts arsenal. Even while following Dark Lord, Antonin had never depended solely on his master to learn the dark arts.

In the beginning, he had enjoyed the power that came with holding a life in the palm of your hand. He had relished in the tortured cries and begging faces. The pleas of mudbloods and muggles had been music for his ears.

He remembered the night he had murdered Gideon and Fabian Prewett.

It had been one of the most brutal killings of the wizarding world, and it had been the incident that had established the fact that even among death eaters, Antonin Dolohov was not someone to be messed with.

From the time he had been a child, Pyotr Dolohov had made sure through bribes and use of his fists that his only son and heir understood the fact that he was a pureblood and by extension better than everyone else.

The ideals of blood-purity had only been strengthened in Hogwarts where everyone in Slytherin had shared the same philosophy that was a driving force behind the pureblood families.

Purebloods were stronger, more intelligent and cunning than half-bloods and mudbloods.

So, why was a half-blood the evilest wizard to ever exist, and how had a mud-muggleborn taken a deadly curse meant for her friend for herself?

Weren't muggleborns supposed to be selfish, foolish and not worthy of magic?

So, how a half-blood and muggleborn had managed to make almost twenty purebloods dance to their tunes?

How was a pureblood better than his witch?

She was worth everyone who had come to the ministry of magic today on his master's order.

He knew what he had to do.

It was now or never. It was the time he took control of his life again. He cast a disillusionment charm on himself and exited the room…

* * *

Hogwarts hadn't changed much since the last time he had been here with the dark lord when dark lord had come to apply for the post of professor of Defense against the Dark Arts.

The wards of Hogwarts were indeed very powerful, but not strong enough to keep him out. They must have brought his witch here. By now, the curse would have affected almost all internal organs of her body, slowly consuming the vitae.

He hurried along the familiar corridors towards the hospital wing. The eerie twilight made the stones gleam as if numerous secrets swirled beneath their hard exterior.

The castle was strangely quiet as if it too mourned the almost death of his witch.

He slipped inside the hospital wing and followed the mediwitch to the farthest bed where curtains had been drawn for privacy.

He found McGonagall sitting on the bedside of Hermione, her old eyes wet with tears.

'I've done all I can, Minerva. If she fights the curse for another twenty-four hours, then she may have a small chance of survival.'

Hermione looked pale and waxy. He could see the life slowly deserting her.

 _What had he done?_

The two women departed after some time leaving him alone with his witch. He moved to the vacated chair, his body trembling as he sat down.

'Hermione?' he whispered, realizing that he was speaking her name for the very first time, and she couldn't even hear him.

His trembling fingers touched her cheek. It was cold.

He had done this. Why had he done this?

He had never known a relationship like that of his witch and Potter. His life had been all about blood supremacy and following a snake-face bastard.

He sat in the corner near her bed for two days and a night under disillusionment charm. People came and went, Potter stayed behind till late nights, just gazing at Hermione's face.

Maybe Antonin had matured enough to understand what Potter felt for Hermione was far different from what he felt for his witch. There was love and devotion of a familial kind. Antonin hadn't understood her reason to throw herself in front of Potter in ministry because he had never witnessed something like this in his entire life. The purebloods he knew didn't care with such devotion, didn't love with such passion.

The day she opened her eyes and croaked Potter's name, he left hospital wing to make his way towards Headmaster's office…

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was surprised when he found Antonin Dolohov waiting for him in his office.

How had the Death Eater escaped ministry officials, and more importantly, what was he doing here?

Antonin Dolohov's face had never been this expressive and Dumbledore's wizened eyes tried to read the story it was telling. There was an underlying sadness in his eyes, not glee. There was a tentative hope, not happiness on the carnage and chaos he had tried to bring tonight.

'Antonin, it has been too long,' Dumbledore remarked casually.

The man didn't answer him. His eyes were trained on Dumbledore's face as if Albus alone could save the man.

'I want to defect,' he said.

Had he listened correctly? Albus Dumbledore couldn't believe his own ears. Why would a Death Eater like Dolohov want to change sides? He was a member of the inner circle, and Voldemort's inner circle held more staunch blood supporters than the man himself.

Dolohov was reputed to be an even bigger bigot than Bellatrix Lestrange.

Albus Dumbledore tried to gauge his reasons, and the sight probe of his leglimency was met with an impenetrable occlumency shield.

'I can assure you my intentions are more than honest, Albus, but don't treat me as one of your order members,' Dolohov snarled, his fists clenching tightly around his wand.

'One would wonder if it has something to do with someone, Antonin,' Dumbledore said gently, walking towards his chair. 'You'll have to forgive an old man for his rudeness, Antonin, but my knees are not what they used to be.'

At the end of the meeting, all Dumbledore could garner was that somehow Antonin Dolohov's bigotry had become a thing of past, and he wanted to help Order against Voldemort. The Death Eater had no request for political asylum or anything of such sort. In fact, he hadn't asked for anything which confounded Dumbledore. Even Severus Snape had a reason for choosing the light.

What was Dolohov's reason?

* * *

 **After playing tag with my dog, I'm reduced to being an inferi as I try to cook something for me to eat. Do review people, it may act as my ambrosia and nectar...  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Doing a one legged rhumba here, people. That was a lot of Ambrosia and nectar you guys sent my way.**

 **My dog's looking at me with a Yoda-like expression as if he wants to say, "Harry Potter, you own not."**

* * *

Chapter Two

 _ **I do love you, but I may never have your love…**_

* * *

Hermione Granger clutched her sides as the pain made her stumble.

After the events of the ministry, it had taken three weeks to completely shake off the effects of Dolohov's curse. And even now–after two months–she still got these sudden pains which made her want to curl in herself.

She stumbled to the nearest bench in closed eye panic. The pain was much sharper today than it had been most of the days. She knew it would pass in few moments, but those few moments felt like hell.

'Are you all right?' When she opened her eyes to answer the man who was standing in front of her, she found herself unable to look away.

His was one of those faces that haunted you with its beauty.

His skin was pale with olive undertones, stretching over the sharp bone structure which was a work of art in itself. Straight nose divided his symmetrical face followed by lips that were the epitome of male beauty. His eyes were jade–clear and crystalline as if he could see inside her very soul and know all her secrets. Light scruff covered his cheeks, making him look like a rogue prince.

Air caressed his dark brown hair which was rich with streaks of gold.

Clad in plain black slacks and a dark blue shirt, he was exactly the type Hermione Granger preferred. She realized that she had forgotten the jabs of discomfort while she had been ogling this stranger.

He was looking at her with a bemused stare as if he perfectly knew what kind of thoughts were going on in her head. Blushing, she lowered her eyes to the ground before remembering he had asked her something. How could she be such an idiot?

'I am fine,' she murmured, her eyes still downcast. She was twisting her fingers in a rather complicated looking pattern, further attesting that she was indeed very nervous in this stranger's company.

'Do you mind if I sit here?' he asked. She couldn't see his face but she could tell that he was smiling.

She moved her head to signify her assent and scooted further on the bench to make room for him.

He was a beautiful man, late thirties by her guess. Age suited him. In fact, it made him much more appealing. He wasn't a native of Britain. His voice still had that slightly exotic tinge of an accent.

'I'm Anton,' he said with a smile that had curved his lips in the most pleasing shape.

'Hermione,' she said; her voice low and full of hesitation. Where had her confidence gone?

It seemed as if this man was slowly robbing her of all coherent thoughts and speech patterns.

'Are you always this shy, Hermione?'

Her startled eyes met his only to find mirth dancing in them. He looked godly when he smiled.

She shook her head. Really? What was with her and conversing in sign language with this man? She had never been this way with Viktor, and he had been a world-famous Quidditch player.

'Then am I special for you to behave like this?' His tone was teasing and that banished her tongue-tied persona in a single moment.

'No,' she huffed.

Deciding to ignore the good looking man sitting on her right, she extracted her half-finished 'Percy Jackson and Sea of monsters' and started with where she had left off. She was trying to catch up her reading in muggle literature while she was home from Hogwarts.

She kept peeking at Anton after she finished every page. He was busy in sketching, his notebook propped on his knees, his lips pursed, and his hands moving gracefully on paper–he looked like the modern, much more handsome version of DaVinci.

She was immersed in Percy Jackson's dialogue with the Cyclops when the soft expletive uttered in complete frustration broke her concentration.

She looked over at him only to find him staring at her.

'What?' Why was he looking at her like that?

'You moved,' he said simply, closing his sketchbook.

Her confusion must have been plainly written on her face. 'I was sketching you.'

For a moment nothing registered in her mind except for the intense stare of those clear jade eyes, but then reason permeated the fog of attraction.

'Why?' Her eyebrows were raised in a silent demand for an answer.

'You are pretty, Hermione.' She could feel the blush warming her cheeks. How could he say things like that so easily? She was already charmed. He didn't need to dial up his charming persona. She was distracted for a moment by his strong bare forearms.

For a moment she thought there was a tattoo or something on his forearm, but it was gone the next moment she blinked.

'I assume the muggle literature you are reading is very fascinating?'

Her gaze was still trained on his strong capable hands with long pianist fingers when his question registered with her brain.

Had he said Muggle?

She looked back at his face, his eyes teasing her with the shared secret. Her brain to mouth filter had never been a problem before, but it seemed his presence had messed up that system as well.

'You're a wizard?' It came out as an accusation.

'You have a problem with that?' He was still his charming self, his smile still blinding and personable.

'No, I mean I've never met a wizard who–' _looked as comfortable as you while trying to play muggle. Or as good as you in muggle clothing._

'Ventures willingly out among muggles?'

'Well…yeah.' She bit her lip, trying to stop her word vomit that she was sure would follow.

'It had never been like this always, Hermione.' His eyes were far away as if he was thinking about a time long past. 'Recently, I find myself enjoying all the surprises this world has to offer more and more–Muggle and magical alike.'

He was fascinating. She had never seen someone accept their faults so openly.

'So, you paint as a hobby?' She knew she was fishing but you couldn't fault a girl for trying, now could you?

'What do you think?' He opened the page to his half-finished sketch. Her face stared out at her from the austere white. Done in just pencil shades, bold strokes that made her look like a dream she was not. She watched the slant of her brows and curve of her lips in awe. This man could make mundane, extraordinary.

'This is beautiful.' Her tone was wistful and dreamy. She sounded like Luna to her own damn ears.

'I have not even captured a fraction of your beauty, _krasivaya_ ,' he said, his eyes intent on her face with a look that spoke of things she didn't understand.

They looked at one another, gazes assessing, and hearts frantically beating. He could be anyone for all she knew, and yet she didn't feel anything but safe in his company.

'I have to go, Hermione,' he said suddenly, his eyes tightening. It was the only sign of discomfort she had seen on his face during the entire time span of their encounter. His hands were curled into fists, fingers digging into his palms.

'Are you all right?' She realized she was repeating the same question he'd asked in the very beginning of their conversation.

He laughed. It wasn't as carefree as it had been before; if she didn't know any better she would say he was in pain. But he had been perfectly fine earlier, hadn't he?

'Don't worry about me, _uvazhayemyye_ Hermione. I'm afraid our encounter was destined to end at this time today, but I'm hopeful that we'll meet again,' he replied as he got up.

'Farewell, Hermione. It was nice to meet you.' He smiled, his eyes full of light and joy and then he disapparated, leaving behind an enamored and awestruck Hermione Granger…

* * *

She was not waiting for him, and yes that was a blatant lie.

She had not been able to sleep properly; her dreams had been haunted by his face, his voice, and his jade eyes.

She sat on the same bench she had been sitting on yesterday, pretending to read her novel while stealing glances around her for his arrival. Maybe he wasn't going to come today. Maybe it had been just a one time thing.

Her face fell. She had wanted to see him again.

She engrossed herself in the pages of the Last Titan.

'Did you already finish the one you had yesterday, Hermione?' Her head snapped up. There he was, clad in a black shirt and dress pants–trying his damnedest, _in her opinion_ , to look like a modern day prince.

The smile on his face seemed strained and entirely for her benefit. She could see the shadows lining his jade orbs.

She gave a tentative smile in return, scooting to make space for him. This was all so new. Her heart galloped in her chest, the sensation entirely unique but not unsettling. He was magic, and dreams. In a single moment, he had made Hermione Granger understand what it meant to crush on someone. A single look and all she wanted to do was to spend all her time in his company. He seemed intelligent and interesting; a combination Hermione had not been able to find in her almost seventeen-year existence.

He opened his sketchbook, settling at a blank page to start sketching again.

Was he drawing her?

Just like yesterday, she couldn't concentrate. After fidgeting for awhile, she closed her book and turned towards him, only to find him staring at her.

'What?'

'You're beautiful,' he said before concentrating on his sketch again.

She laughed, her head thrown back and her eyes closed in amusement, she was the very picture of a pagan goddess. 'You do know that sounds weird, coming from a man like you?'

'What do you mean "a man like me"?' He sounded miffed.

'I wasn't trying to offend you. It's just that, you are you.' She gestured wildly towards him but apparently he didn't understand. His sketchbook was a forgotten entity lying on the bench; his hands were crossed in front of his chest and his eyebrows were raised in demand of an answer.

'I mean you are good-looking and mature.' She could feel the blush staining her cheeks. She didn't remember the last time she had blushed. Maybe in the second year when Professor Lockhart had come to Hogwarts? In fact, she wanted to add many more adjectives to the bare good-looking she had uttered in reply.

'And?' He was enjoying this. The prat. She could tell by the slight curve of his lips, and the angle of his head.

'And I'm me. Plain, know-it-all Hermione Granger,' she completed the sentence in frustration.

Silence reigned. Had she crossed any invisible line that she had to adhere to?

'Who told you that?' He sounded angry. Why would he be angry?

'Nobody has to tell me that. I have eyes and I own a mirror.' To her own ears, she sounded petulant and whiny.

'Then your mirror lies, Hermione. _Ty tak krasiva_. If only you could see yourself from my eyes, then you would understand the beauty my eyes find in your face.' She knew it was cowardly to not meet his eyes, but he sounded so wistful. Had he loved someone in his life?

He sounded like someone remembering his love. The thought of someone else on the receiving end of Anton's affection felt vaguely unsettling.

Why was it unsettling?

She had only known this man from one conversation. A single meeting didn't tell a lot about the person, did it? And yet Anton didn't feel like a stranger. There was something in the way he talked; in the way he looked at her that felt familiar as if he knew her. But that couldn't be, right? She was sure it was only their second meeting.

She realized he was waiting expectantly for her to say something. She didn't know what to say. What could one say in the face of such conviction?

'You're a painter,' she mumbled.

'So?'

'You can see beauty in almost anything.' Now she raised her head to look in his eyes, and god his eyes…

They held the entire world in them. Every tiny bit of feeling she felt in this moment, it was there in his eyes, stark and bare for her to see.

Needy, his eyes were needy.

'Not in everything, Hermione. Never in everything.' He stared at her as if he could unravel her being and understand who she was in a single look. This moment felt frozen, but she knew it couldn't remain so for a very long time. It was better if she broke the eye contact.

With some effort, she managed to drag her gaze back to her book. He went back to his paper the moment she went back to her book.

Was it possible that he liked her?

She knew it was childish to even think that he might like her at some level. He was the first man who had tried to see past the exterior of Hermione Granger. He was the first man who had understood why she compensated her beauty with her intelligence or tried to. He was the first man who had made her feel desire in such stark fashion. So, blame her if she was curious about him.

She liked the way he got invested in his own work, forgetting the entire world as he sat with his ideas and paper for company. Sometimes he would absently bite his lower lip between his teeth, and Hermione was sure he did it a lot. Unfortunately for her, whenever his lips went between his teeth, her concentration went down the drain.

It was disconcerting.

And she was staring.

And he'd caught her.

'If you were someone else, I would say you were staring at me, Hermione,' he said playfully, a smile blooming across his lips.

'And if you were someone else, I would say you were fishing for compliments, Anton,' she retorted, her own smile held in check.

'Then let's assume I'm that some else, _vozlyublennaya.'_

'Well, then I would say you are very distracting.' She couldn't do anything about the blush that stained her cheeks. The least she could do was to meet his eyes.

It was a good thing that she did just that.

They changed so swiftly–his eyes. They changed from that of a laughing man to a predator's. It was but a minuscule shift, and yet it changed the whole persona of Anton. He was no longer the same smiling man who had teased her just a few moments earlier. Now, he was someone else.

His hands snaked around her when he stood up, pulling her to him. She knew she should at least protest at his man-handling but she was gobsmacked, and yes probably too dazed to utter a single word. That unholy fire burning in his eyes was too addictive.

'Stand behind me,' he whispered; his lips at the shell of her ear. For a moment she didn't understand, but she had no more time for contemplation as he pushed her behind him and drew his wand to cast the first curse.

* * *

He fought like he had always been fighting.

Quick, deft flick of his wand had Death Eaters dropping left and right.

'Why Rabastan, look who we have here?' That baby talk could only come from one person.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

'It's Potter's mudblood.'

Before the Death Eater at her right could say something else to Bellatrix, he dropped like a stone, his flesh melting from his body in front of her very own eyes.

The unholy shriek coming from the madwoman in front of her could only mean one thing.

The man was dead.

Hermione didn't know what to feel. Decidedly the spell Anton had used was on the dark spectrum of spell casting, but he had used it to save their lives. Did it make the use of dark arts okay?

Bellatrix attacked Anton with renewed anger, and yet she was no match for him. They had come in a group of seven, and only two remained.

Bellatrix and one large man dwelling beside her.

'Avada Kedavra.'

Anton's spell hit the large man squarely in the chest. He toppled, his head thrown backward, mask displaced from his bulbous pale face. He was no one she knew and yet she couldn't help but feel bad for his fate. The small fission of dread at the base of her spine had grown, and Anton's unforgivable was not helping.

She looked at him.

And wished she hadn't.

His wand made the familiar motion. The sharp movement accompanied with the burst of purple light that escaped from the tip of his wand was familiar.

After all, she had taken his curse on her heart, hadn't she?

One could forget faces and names, but she doubted if anyone forgot their pain.

'Hermione?'

The park was silent. There were no bodies, no mad death eaters, only Anton-no, Antonin Dolohov.

'Hermione?'

Why had he come after her? Had he come to drag her to Vol-Voldemort? Had he been here to know more about Harry?

God, Harry!

Did he mean to use her to get to Harry?

'Stay away from me.' Her wand was drawn, and her heart thundered in her ears.

She might not be a match for him, but she would die before Harry was in any problem because of her stupid attraction towards a Death Eater.

She disgusted herself.

'Hermione?'

'I was fooled for a moment, but not anymore. Go back to Vol-Voldemort and tell him you failed, Antonin Dolohov.'

* * *

 **I feel as if someone brewed anti-Amortentia and injected it in my veins. Poor Antonin. Send me loads and loads of Amortentia (duh, I know you know that it's my code for reviews) so that I can recover.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A couple has recently moved in my neighborhood, and I am ashamed to tell you that when I see them together, the first thought that comes to my mind is that there go Merope Gaunt and Tom Riddle Sr.**

 **The man is a hottie and the woman-well not so much. I'm not saying that in spite. The woman really looks sinister and she's got this mean stare that she fastens on any female who ventures close to the man.**

 **I'm scared out of my mind at the prospect of the birth of a real Dark Lord in near vicinity of my home.**

 **Do you think Amortentia is being used? Where are bloody aurors when you need them?**

 **If only I were J.K Rowling…**

* * *

Chapter Three

 _ **My love is in my heart and your name's on my lips…**_

* * *

She knew.

How did she know?

Why did she know?

'Hermione –'

'No.'

His past sins had found him again.

She stood in front of him like an avenging angel, like the warrior she was. Her face was the epitome of fury, her eyes spewing hate in his direction. He couldn't help but feel proud of his witch. She was a vision.

And she knew who he was.

When he had started this charade, he had only thought of the momentary comfort he could find in her company. He had watched her for numerous days –standing beneath the disillusionment charm –before approaching her.

He had only wanted to make her happy. She had seemed so sad. And in pain.

But now the cat was out of the bag, and the woman in front of him was intent on gauzing out his eyes.

'Dark Lord didn't send me,' he said quietly, knowing what she deserved was absolute truth. Even though truth might make him sound barmy.

So, he told her. Laid his heart bare, and let her judge his sins. To her credit, she didn't interrupt him when he told her all about the first time he had seen her, and his instant obsession with her.

That was what it was, wasn't it?

An obsession that had taken him in its thrall.

'So you are saying you have changed your bigoted, blood supremacist attitude because you seem to have fallen in love with me?'

He coughed at the point when she said the L-word, and she glared at him.

'Well, you are rather fascinating,' he tried to deflect.

'Help me understand all this, Dolohov.' Her eyes were still trained intently on him, and her wand still pointed at his heart. 'Give me a good reason why I shouldn't call ministry, and hand you over to the Aurors.'

'Ah, _dorogoy_! Do you think I'm a small puppy that you can pick and hand over to the big bad ministry?' His eyes taunted her. He didn't need words for that.

* * *

Damn! Did he need to look so handsome?

Even in this moment when she found him repulsive, she couldn't help but be attracted towards him. He stood a small distance away from her, his hands in the pocket of his trousers and his smirk playing on his lips. His shirt sleeves were folded and she found herself curiously attracted towards his forearms. Again.

He was a very attractive man. Attractive enough that he had made numerous appearances in Hermione's daydream since their last encounter.

Apart from the physical assurance that he carried with such ease, it was the power that was coiled around him which attracted her like a moth.

He might claim that he liked her in his own twisted way, but he was no tame creature she could make dance on her tunes.

Whatever she was going to say to him was pushed in the back of her mind as the pain that had dogged her steps from last two months hit her hard.

Again.

It was like being flayed alive. If someone took a blunt knife and scraped every part of the skin on your body very slowly–she doubted even that would hurt this much. They had all said how lucky she had been to survive Dolohov's curse.

Apparently, no one had been able to do so.

As in ever.

Right now she didn't feel lucky. She just wanted this pain to stop.

Hands enveloped her in their warmth. Big hands that could perhaps choke the very life out of her in a single moment if they wanted. She knew the vulnerability she showed this sadistic monster would come back to bite her in the ass, but she let herself fall against his chest.

Soft words reached her ears, words she couldn't understand in the haze of her pain.

His hands rubbed the length of her arms. His hold was too tight or maybe not tight at all.

'It's going to be okay, Hermione.'

Was it?

She had come too close to lose all of who she was to this man. Had she not discovered he was the Death Eater, Antonin Dolohov, she might have fallen in love with him.

It would have been ridiculously easy to fall in love with the man Antonin Dolohov pretended to be. She had lost Anton, and that rankled.

The pain was slowly subsiding. Even though it would hurt her to walk from here to home, she was ready to do so if it took her away from this man. She pushed herself away from his arms with extreme difficulty.

He didn't protest.

'Hermione –'

'No. Stay away from me.' She staggered back.

The hurt that she saw in his eyes wasn't real. It could never be real. The man who had brutally murdered countless people couldn't have grown a conscience because he had found himself fascinated with a wisp of a girl.

The idea was too preposterous.

And frightening.

She ran away.

She knew she wouldn't be proud of the fact once her inner Gryffindor surfaced again. Gryffindors weren't known for running after all.

* * *

The letters started coming after a couple of weeks.

First, it had been roughly drawn sketches of her face while she sat reading. Then they progressed to much-refined work that involved a lot of gorgeous colors filling the bare penciled outline of her face on paper.

She knew she should have returned those, but they were so beautiful. They made her feel beautiful.

 _No one had made her feel beautiful before._

From paintings, they advanced to sorry notes accompanying odd little trinkets and hastily scrawled lines, as if he was always in a hurry to send them to her at the first chance he got.

A rare tome on spellcasting, a bunch of black roses from his gardens or chocolates. Expensive chocolates.

She didn't know how the man knew of her love for chocolates, but somehow he did.

And a small part of her was very thankful.

The part that had to suffer period pains appreciated his gift of chocolates.

He never demanded answers from her.

He wrote to her without expecting a reply.

Ever.

So, maybe that was the reason why she decided to pen him one.

* * *

 _The man who tried to kill me once,_

 _Thank you for all your gifts. I don't know what you're trying to prove, but I appreciate your penchant for giving me chocolates._

 _You say you've changed, and forgive me if I don't believe it straight away. You do have a reputation. Not to mention, that you killed Gideon and Fabian Prewett and I should hate you on principle as I'm Ron's best friend._

 _Then there's the fact that your boss killed my best friend Harry's family and repetitively tries to kill him. Not to mention that being a muggleborn, I feel very strongly about the murder of numerous muggleborns or mudbloods as you people call us, by your hand._

 _The list is long, and if I go on, even numerous rolls of parchments won't be enough to cover the plethora of your_ _sins._

 _So, I ask again._

 _Why this show of remorse?_

 _-Hermione Granger (in case you couldn't remember who I was)_

He laughed.

He laughed till his sides hurt and tears came out of his eyes. Even her words were full of righteous indignation.

She was a joy. She was the burst of colors in his otherwise monochrome existence. Even the days he got crucioed by no-nose bastard were bearable because of her.

She demanded answers in this letters of hers.

He didn't know if he had those answers, but he could try, couldn't he?

So he sat down to write a rather detailed and long letter, including the name or in cases there were no names, descriptions of people he had tortured or killed.

* * *

She didn't know when she had gone on from subtly insulting the man to waiting for his letters. It was a friendship born out of very odd circumstances. These days she found herself laughing aloud to some small snippet he had shared in one of his letters.

She kept all his letters.

Thankfully he never signed them otherwise it would have been a disaster, had the thing fallen into someone's hands.

She was basically consorting with the enemy.

And if her friends came to know that… well, it would be a tragedy.

She was clutching his recent letter in the privacy of her own bed, curtains drawn to keep the onlookers out.

 _Hermione,_

 _So, how was your day? You wouldn't believe how outlandish mine was until I tell you. Apparently Bellatrix tried to move in with the dark lord. You can only imagine what happened afterwards._

 _He didn't throw her out as all of us were expecting._

 _Instead they have been locked in his room; god knows doing what from past five hours. Just the thought of them shagging makes me feel like retching._

It made her feel like vomiting too. Ew.

 _My days are tedious, apart from the moments when I read your letters. Are we still on for upcoming Sunday?_

 _-A_

 _P.S: Don't throw a fit, but it reminded me of you. Wear it on Sunday._

She looked curiously at the package sitting innocently on her bed.

She unwrapped the covering to find a velvet box of deepest blue. Her heart stuttered for a moment. Surely he had not decided now was good time to start giving her jewelry.

She opened the box to find the most exquisite sapphire drops that she had ever seen. It seemed as if they encased the blue fire within their depths.

She knew she shouldn't accept it, and yet she didn't want to part with it.

With heavy heart she replaced the earrings back in their case, determined to return them on Sunday.

* * *

'I didn't think you were going to come,' he said as he took her hand.

'Well, you kinda make saying no quite difficult.'

They walked on the streets of Chisinau, hand in hand, taking in the sights around them. Yes, she had lied to the headmaster when she had said she needed to go home, but the happiness shining in Antonin's eyes was worth it.

'I do that, don't I?' He smiled, and she felt her heart go crazy at the sight of his joy. 'Where are your earrings?' He frowned.

'Well, you see about that…um –' she tried, she really did but he was shushing her before she could get anything out.

'You are wearing them, Hermione. And you are not giving them back,' he said sternly.

'Aren't you bossy today?' she grumbled when he took the box from her hands and opened it to take the earrings out.

He looked at her expectantly, and she realized that he was waiting for her to sweep her hair to one side. Did the man really want those sapphires in her earlobes that badly?

It was a different sensation as he carefully fastened them. She shivered at the brush of his fingers against her skin.

This man made her wary and star-struck at the same moment. She hadn't been able to figure out how he did that.

'There. Now you look beautiful, _dorogoy_ ,' he said as they started to walk again, fingers once again intertwined, bodies almost brushing.

'I wasn't beautiful to begin with?' She frowned, trying to appear angry.

'You dim the stars and tarnish the moon with your beauty, Hermione. I just wanted to see you wearing those.' He pointed at the sapphires.

They were flirting. In fact, they had been flirting with each other since their very first meeting –not in the department of mysteries where he had tried to kill her, of course. She knew most people would never understand what she saw in him and what he saw in her and yet there was something between them that transcended explanations. She enjoyed his company and his smiles even more. They argued about almost anything, from advanced transfiguration theories to why she always sent her letters at a fixed time.

 _What did he see in her?_

He always said she was beautiful and she was unlike any other female he had ever encountered, but what did he _really_ see in her?

Harry and Ron saw their best friend –the girl who was always running with them to the very edge of danger, Ginny saw another female companion, Lavender saw her as a rival for Ron's affection whereas for Parvati, she was just a dorm mate.

The purebloods saw her as an anomaly, others as know-it-all.

What did Antonin see in her?

She wanted to ask him but each time she tried, her courage deserted her. Somewhere in her heart, she was afraid of his answer. She was afraid of his rejection.

He was Antonin Dolohov –rich, cultured, charming, handsome and pureblood to boot. He could have any woman he wanted despite his fugitive status. So, why did he spend so much time with her? Why did he write her multiple times a day? Why did he send her trinkets and gifts?

 _Was she his new hobby_ _–_ _something he indulged in to pass his time?_

When Hogwarts closed for holidays, his letters would always be waiting with a portkey. Her sixth year had passed in blur of penning acerbic replies and refuting his claims on her time. Surprisingly, he had still been persistent, and slowly his patience and understanding had bulldozed down her walls of resentment. Not to mention the fact that she could rant about anything and everything and he still didn't bat an eyelash.

Her holidays were spent walking the streets of Rome or trying beef-stroganoff in St. Petersburg. In fact, he had his own personal mission of showing her the world, or so he said. Ron and Harry naturally were curious about what she was doing these days in her holidays, but she had come up with valid excuses.

So, what did Antonin Dolohov want from her?

She was sure her crush was totally inappropriate and one-sided considering the fact that the man barely touched her anywhere except for taking her hand. Despite their verbal banter, he'd always maintained a careful distance and somehow Hermione couldn't quell the little whisper in her heart that she wasn't good enough for him.

'What has got you in that contemplative mood, _dorogoy_?' She turned her head to look at his face. His eyes held questions and his lips were pursed in a frown. She decided it was now or never. She needed answers and who better than Dolohov to give them to her.

'What do you want from me, Antonin?'

* * *

He was shocked and stunned.

And he could barely form a coherent thought.

What did he want from her?

Oh Merlin! If she knew the plethora of things he wanted from her, she would probably run for the hills.

How could he answer her? How could he say, that Hermione I want to pull you closer and kiss you till you yearn for breath. Or Hermione, I want to dump you across any horizontal surface and bury my head in your cunt for eternity. Or Hermione, I want to love you for all my days and hopefully bask in yours for all your days to come.

How could he formulate a general enough answer for her question?

She was still looking at him, her brown eyes trained on his face. 'Well, you are an insanely good company, _krasivaya_.' He tried to evade those probing brown eyes.

Her face fell. If Antonin had not known her, he wouldn't have noticed that slight shift of her lips and the fall of her lashes to hide her eyes. She seemed…sad?

'Hermione?'

'Hmm?' She still wasn't meeting his eye, and strangely this gave him hope. Was it possible… that all he had craved, all he had wanted –she might want it too?

'Look at me,' he said as his fingers gently raised her head in direction of his eyes. 'What do you want from me, Hermione?'

She blushed. The sudden infusion of color in her cheeks and the hooded look in her eyes were a change from her usual direct gaze. Moments passed as they stood in an almost embrace in a busy Chisinau street. Was the answer to his question that difficult?

'I don't know what I want, Antonin. Nobody has ever asked or cared about what I need,' she whispered, her gaze meeting his. There was a tentative dream in those eyes –a dream that he himself had seen numerous times before.

Did she…feel anything for him?

When he'd started writing to her, it had been the only way he'd thought he could have her in his life. But then she had answered and demanded explanations. Slowly his letters were answered within span of hours and the trinkets he sent never returned. He'd chalked it up to a young girl's fascination, but she had not been careless.

She had almost treasured their connection as affectionately as him and with due diligence.

Could Hermione Granger feel anything for him? The thought was breathtaking in its beauty. His mind couldn't help but dream of his ancestral castle alive with joy of their shared love, its gardens spilling with nature's vitality and Hermione chasing after a little girl with curly dark hair.

He shook his head to clear his mind. He was really getting old if thoughts of kids and castles had started to stump him in the middle of a street in middle of the day. He looked into her eyes again, and it was like watching a rose bloom –unfurling its dark seductive petals –where her dreams and hopes were the mysterious fragrant center.

'So, hypothetically…I know this chap, who likes this girl,' he said slowly, his fingers running down her hands. 'He is a bit older than her, has a messy history and a humanoid snake-faced boss.'

Her lips curved and she stepped closer to him, completely in his arms. His arms went around her back and settled at her waist. 'So, this guy –he is crazy after the girl. Writes her long, sappy letters, and sends her flowers from his garden.'

Her arms roped around his neck and her fingers locked at the base of back of his throat. 'He will practically do anything for his girl, but he is scared,' he said as he leaned towards her, his forehead touching hers. His breath fell on her lips and it was a sight. Especially after the way her tongue peeked from her mouth to lick her lower lip.

'Why?' Her question was innocence expounded, and Antonin knew that the answers he kept close to his heart were hers by right.

'He is afraid of rejection. So, he hides his love in his gifts, his yearning in words. Frankly, he doesn't think she would want him. He is an old, scarred man defined by his mistakes and his past and he knows he doesn't deserve her. Couldn't deserve her in thousand lifetimes even if he tried.'

A drop of rain fell on his cheek and he lowered his eyes. He felt vulnerable, almost naked. Now, she knew, and it was a matter of time before she ran for the hills.

'His letters aren't sappy, and they make her day,' she whispered after few seconds, her body finally fitting in his. Every curve hugged the hard plane of his physicality like a perfect jigsaw puzzle, like the perfect half god had only designed for him. He dared to meet her eyes again, and the intensity robbed him of his breath.

The rain was falling in slow drizzle. Around them, people rushed to take cover but they remained lost in their own little bubble, oblivious to the world around them. 'She keeps his every gift, and all his roses are pressed between her books. She eats the chocolates he sends and wonders how he came to know she loved them.'

Their eyes couldn't have moved from other's face. This was something out of the dream they had both saw but ignored in fear. 'She doesn't look at boys her age because her thoughts are already occupied by a man who looks like an angel and tempts her like sin.' She leaned in a bit more, her lips almost touching his. 'She can't fall in love with anyone else, because she has already fallen in love.'

Her lips touched his, softly, barely before she drew away.

'She wants to ask, "What does he see in me?" and yet every time she wants to, she stops. He has become her gravity, and her ground. She is terrified of what will happen if he suddenly decides he no longer needs her in his life. So, she keeps her love in her heart, hidden beneath her know-it-all attitude, and a façade of courage.'

He words were all those desires he had never dared to examine closely, all those promises he had wanted for himself. He had not been the only one who had been terrified of the change, she had been right there beside him; shivering in her skin at the prospect of what would happen if the other came to know truly of what they wanted.

This was a gift Antonin had never expected from his life. The day he had bared his forearm and dark mark had been burned in his skin –he had abandoned any hope for a future where he could be who he wanted to be. The dark mark had been his identity and his calling card. It had been his prison and his home.

She had been a flame at first, a tentative flicker lightening the darkness of his heart.

And then she had become an inferno, burning the shade inside and around him. She had touched his tainted skin and given him a new life –away from madmen intent on destroying the world and dark marks burned in skin.

The mark or the term Death Eater was no longer the thing that defined Antonin Dolohov. It was just a pale drawing that a no-nose, snake-faced, artistically impaired bastard had carved on his skin.

He realized he'd been silent for some time. She was still here –in his arms –and she was looking at him expectantly.

'He loves her. He will always love her,' he said softly.

Her lips met his with such force that it knocked him a step back. She was still molded to him and her mouth was…heavenly.

A sharp crack of disapparation later, they found themselves in the garden of Castle Dolohov…

* * *

 **I forgot to thank you guys for the reviews, didn't I?**

 **You guys have given me loads of love and kind words. A girl doesn't forget that even when some nincompoop like Lockhart does an "Obliviate".**

 **Send me your patronuses for protection. Mine's a wolf, what's yours?**


	4. Chapter 4

**I am coughing like Granny evil, and my nose is blocked. My head feels like Dobby is sitting on top of it. If only I had some of the potion that cures this blasted cough and cold.**

 **Anyways, you people are the ultra mag group of people ever. Thanks a bunch for leaving me all those reviews. I know I haven't answered most of you, but know that I've read and appreciated every single word. Thank you guys!**

 **This is the end of our little story. I planned this one solely around Hermione and Antonin's relationship and it was magical to write this pair.**

 **So, thank you for following, favoriting and reviewing my story.**

 **I don't own Harry Potter!**

 ***bawls like a baby and runs away***

* * *

 **Epilogue**

 _My love for you is a candle,_

 _Burning with an eternal flame…_

* * *

'Hermione…'

'Hmm.'

'Come to bed, _dragaya_.'

'Just a few more minutes.' She yawned and rubbed her eyes, fatigue evident in her firebrand eyes.

The moon had climbed in its third quarter and stars were a surprise when she raised her head to look out of the window. The last she'd checked-the sun had still been shining in the sky.

Her study faced the gardens, and the fragrance permeated the air coming from the window.

In the shadow of Castle Dolohov was a piece of heaven that Antonin had created to escape the madness of his life. Tall marble columns dripping with flowering vines intersected the trellis of black and red roses. As far as she could see, there were only roses with their soft petals and heady fragrance.

'Hermione…' his hands worked out the kinks from her neck, their touch familiar and welcome.

It had been three years since the wizarding war had ended.

And it had been four since Hermione and Antonin had dispelled the loneliness that clung to the walls of his home.

Now when the sun rose in the sky, it was greeted by the gleaming spires and shining windows, blooming flowers and joyous chirps. It slowly crept throw the glass windows of the master bedroom on the third floor and stumbled blindingly on the content entwined forms of Hermione and Antonin.

He would shield his eyes from the light, bury his head in her hair and mutter about her stupid habit of insisting on leaving the curtains parted. She would press herself closer to him and smile-the first thing he saw every morning.

Their road to happiness had not been without its dangers and pitfalls.

He had held her in his arms when she'd broken down after obliviating her parents. She'd lost her grief in his love and he'd lost the chips of his flinty heart.

She'd gone to search for Horcruxes and he'd made sure that nobody among his former associates or heaven forbid, his snake face boss found anything about her.

Bellatrix had somehow worked out his association with Hermione and the fact that he'd killed his fellow Death Eaters when she'd attacked Hermione in the park.

Antonin would have taken death gladly-kissed it like his absolution-if it would have spared Hermione. But snatchers had caught her alongside Potter and Weasley, and it had been hell when Bellatrix had marred her perfect skin with the insult.

She'd made him watch.

He'd made sure Bellatrix begged for her death.

He'd kept her alive to watch her master's demise.

'You need to sleep,' he said as he maneuvered her out of her chair.

'But I'm so close, Antonin,' she protested.

'You can continue tomorrow, _krasivaya.'_

He picked her up despite her half-hearted protests and walked out of her study.

'When did you come back?'

'I took the last available port-key from New York, only to find my wife too immersed in her research to even spare me a glance when I entered her study,' he grumbled.

'Your wife was trying to find a permanent cure for Dragon Pox.' She cuddled into his chest. 'So, how was your exhibition?'

And just like that, she'd made him forget that he was supposed to be angry at her working hours. 'Oh, Hermione, they loved it. I couldn't…'

She'd encouraged him to send his canvases to muggle galleries and they'd been extremely popular. Soon, the name Dolohov became as known in muggle world as it was in wizarding one. It was the latest fashion statement to have a Dolohov on your wall. The media obviously wanted to celebrate the genius of A. Dolohov but they seldom found the man.

As Antonin laid Hermione on their bed, moon peeked through the windows to fall on her face. She was still the same Hermione who'd shyly kissed his lips when he'd brought her to Castle Dolohov for the first time. She was still the same Hermione who'd enticed him with smoky eyes and innocent smiles. She was the same woman who'd promised to never let go of his hand throughout their lives.

'I love you, Hermione,' he whispered on her lips, his hands tangling in her hair.

'As I love you, Antonin…'

The night gave away to day, breathy cries to soft moans. Passion changed to languor, as they drifted on their dreams…

* * *

 **Goodbye Hermione and Antonin, till we meet again somewhere entirely new and different…**


End file.
